


you are whatever a moon has always meant

by hihoplastic



Series: DW Tumblr Prompts/Reposts [18]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode: s10e06 Extremis, F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 09:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10964103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: Everything reminds him of her, every thought, every decision he hears her voice in his head,wrong door, sweetiewhen he's trying to find the wardrobe,that much sugar will make you sick,when he's making tea,oh just use the bloody stabilizerswhen he's careening around the control room.





	you are whatever a moon has always meant

**Author's Note:**

> \- spoilers for 10x06, extremis  
> \- thanks to pam as always for the read-through!  
> \- title from e.e. cummings, _[i carry your heart with me]_

By the time he sets everything up – his professorship, the vault, a bank account, a real address he’ll never use - he’s exhausted. He still has an office to decorate, lessons to plan (he thinks of River, on the sofa with a tablet in her lap, writing up meticulous lesson plans and exams and assignments, glasses she never needed perched on her nose because she knew he found them sexy; his own whinging and attempts to distract her with foot massages and wandering hands; her laughter, hitting him with a pillow, _these plans won't write themselves, darling,_ and his huff, _you're clever, just wing it_ ; her ardent protests even as she let him take her tablet and toss it aside, crawling up her body, resting his weight over her, her hands in his hair, _are you distracting me for a reason, sweetie, or just planning a nap?_ , and his low growl, mouth over hers, _I’ll give you a reason—_ )

He shuts his eyes tightly and tries to let go of the memories, at least for now. He has work to do, a promise to keep. 

But first, he needs time. To sleep, if he can, though he rarely does anymore, but at least a moment to rest his eyes, to prepare himself for the next thousand years and he wishes like hell the times were reversed. Twenty-four years guarding a box, a thousand with his wife. 

He thinks of Rory, brave, devoted Rory, 2000 years as a Roman centurion for the reward of maybe, hopefully, a small human life with Amy. 

He thinks of River, their house on Darillium, still there, still theirs, and figures if this is the trade off for that quarter century, he’ll take it. Any day, any penance. 

He has to stop.

Everything reminds him of her, every thought, every decision he hears her voice in his head, _wrong door, sweetie_ when he's trying to find the wardrobe, _that much sugar will make you sick,_ when he's making tea, _oh just use the bloody stabilizers_ when he's careening around the control room.

It's too soon, he's too raw and emotional and standing still will only make it worse.

Nardole echoes his fears when he returns to the TARDIS, moving them into his new, grand office.

“She wouldn't want this for you, you know,” he says, careful but sure. “Staying Earthbound. You need adventure.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“But you're not fine. You miss her.”

He very nearly snorts. “Of course I do.”

Nardole sighs. “Then you’ll be wanting this.”

When he looks up, Nardole is holding her diary, worn and blue and beautiful. The sight of it makes his eyes sting, and his hand trembles slightly as he reaches for it. 

The cover is soft, the binding cracked, and he holds it with more reverence than priests clutch their bibles. 

“How did you find it?”

“You left it by the bookshelf,” he says, gesturing upstairs. “I thought it might remind you.”

He strokes the cover, staring down at the tears and yellowing pages. 

“Yes. Yes, it did.” He pauses, swallows to clear the emotion in his throat, “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you alone now for a bit,” he says, and there's a touch of promise in his voice, his words from earlier echoed, 

_Followed you from Darillium on the explicit orders of your late wife, River Song. Warning, I have full permission to kick your arse._

He knows, without a doubt, he won't be rid of Nardole anytime soon, and he’s almost glad. Relieved, not only to not be alone, but that he doesn't have to find someone, that he's already here, that he’s in some way a part of her, her final act, protecting him from himself from beyond the grave. 

He thinks of Trenzalore, and his hearts burn. 

_He left me, like a book on a shelf. He doesn't like endings,_ and, _Say it like you're going to come back._

Maybe it is a blessing, then. A thousand years, grounded, with little else to do but teach and guard a box and perhaps, just perhaps, think of a way to save her, the way she always saves him. 

He thinks of her words, _good is good in the final hour, in the deepest pit, without hope, without weakness, without reward._ He hears them not in Nardole’s horrible Italian accent or Missy’s wavering plea, but in her voice, how they were meant to be heard, _my husband, my madman in a box, my Doctor._

“Nardole.”

Nardole stops at the top of the stairs, about to leave. “Yes, Sir?”

“I mean it.” He meets the other man’s gaze. “Thank you.”

Nardole bows his head. “You're very welcome, Sir,” and turns to leave again. 

“Nardole.”

He sighs, but dutifully looks back. “Yes, Doctor?”

Turning back to the console, the Doctor carefully places her diary near the time rotor, a hum of love and grief warm in his head. 

“Don't ever, _ever_ , read her diary again.”

He feels the air change, the tension, the silence abruptly palpable. Even the TARDIS seems to be holding her breath, even as she does her best to soothe him. 

“Yes, Doctor,” Nardole says finally, quietly, and leaves quickly. He isn't stupid, the Doctor knows, and can hear the underlying rage that feels like betrayal. 

He remembers her wild anger, _don't you dare touch that!,_ how calm it turned, her threat to Fleming, _so do, please, keep going,_ and knows she wouldn't want it. No one else. Ever, will read those words. 

It's a promise he makes, to himself and to her, that he’ll protect the book, their book, their story. 

Picking it up again, he trails his finger over the cover, along the edges of the pages. 

“Just us now, dear,” he murmurs, tucking her diary into his pocket, where he’ll keep it, always. “Just us now.”


End file.
